


When everything seems to be lost

by Annemarie01



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dealing with fear, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mother Issues, and a happy ending after all, dealing with anger, fluff (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annemarie01/pseuds/Annemarie01
Summary: When her mother dies, Hawke is completely devastated. And then she disappeares. Obviously there's only one person who can save her. But will he come in time..?"Hot tears were streaming down her face wile she shredded her voice, seething, yelling, roaring. Cursing the Maker himself for her fate, for her inability to keep the ones she loved and cared for with her."My (very) personal impression of All that remains. (But, keep in mind, absolutely not a another too known narate of what happened in the game.)





	When everything seems to be lost

**Author's Note:**

> "All that remains" is serious food for thought. I know this is undoubtedly the umteenth time someone has tried their hand at the toppic, but I've done my very best to give it a new twist.  
> Anyway, I'm glad you decided to give my little story the benefit of the doubt and I hope fervently you won't get disappointed.
> 
> Enjoy!

When everything seems to be lost

-

Ages. It had seemed to be ages. It had lasted for ages. It had been going on for ages. That was one thing she was certain of. It didn´t matter it had happened just a day ago. Her life had changed and she had been a different person ever since. Dumb and cold and impassive. Too afraid to let her emotions run rampant and get the better of her. She couldn’t even remember the woman she had been before yesterday.

Ages...

-

For ages she had been staring into the fire that burned in the hearth in her bedroom. Her eyes stayed dry; for some reason or another she couldn’t cry. The former radiant blue orbs, now dulled, stung in their dryness as if they were begging for the tears that wouldn’t come. Her hands had been clenched into fists; her nails had broken the skin, calloused from all the years of wielding daggers. They had left bloodied marks through the callosity. It hurt, but still the tears wouldn’t fall to free her from the choking feeling of emptiness, grief and downright failure. She wanted to forget, to chase away the gruesome images but that endeavour also proved to be unsuccessful. She had sent away all of her friends. Even Fenris, who somewhere had found the courage to make a clumsy but well meant attempt to comfort her.  She had listened to his friendly words, almost politely. But in the end she had made clear to him she wanted to be alone. She had willed herself into trying to cope with her pain on her own. But now it seemed that effort had turned and bit her in the back. She had never felt so lonely before, not even when the elf had left her in the middle of the night with that idiotic cowardly excuse for a decent explanation why he ran away from her. And besides that, she felt utterly drained but sleep was no option. She was afraid that at the moment she dared to close her eyes, the events of the past day would turn into nightmares, even more vivid than the gruesome pictures already whirling in her head.

She and her mother had never been what you could call friends. Not even back in Ferelden, where the twins had been her mother’s bundle of pride and joy, her wonderful little prince and princess, and she had been some kind of half-forgotten older child that, somehow, stood in the way of the dream of the perfect happy family. Because she was everything but compliant and, apparently, had difficult hair that always seemed to object against plaits and pink ribbons.

But in Kirkwall, after all the unsavoury events, it had grown worse. And it had grown even more worse after she had accomplished to get back the deed to her mother’s old mansion. At the dear cost of the little princess. Almost immediately after passing the threshold of her ancestrally real estate, her mother started to put up her old, shaken back to life, aristocratic attitude. Together with the matching insufferable snobbish behaviour.

More often than Marian could, or wanted, to recall, they had been shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. Her mother had accused her of the loss of her siblings, unnecessarily adding to her already unbearable feelings of guilt. She had hated her for that. But when she had come to her senses, to be honest only years later, she had understood that Leandra had just given air to her own sorrow and had lashed out at the nearest person available. And that person, more or less accidently, had happened to be the one who resented the pink ribbons.

But she hadn’t been given time to come to terms with that insight. Because, when they had moved to this grand estate, her mother suddenly had got it into her mind that her only surviving child, the one she had until then too willingly overlooked, should be married off to some kind of snooty noble. To re-establish the Amell name. They had been arguing about that stupid topic for ages. Her mother had even gone as far as to take the opportunity of that fateful night with Fenris, to push her into several dates with what she had called “promising prospects”. She had tolerated the elf and had pointed out she always could keep him as a lover on the side. Hawke had been appalled but too devastated at that time to argue, but she had hated her mother even more for it. The whole idea had been preposterous, if not atrocious. She had felt sick by the sheer thought.

But of course she had never hated her. Not really. There had been annoyance. Frustration. Anger. And beneath all of that affection. Love. Even though her mother had had the audacity to diminish her love for Fenris. She had never understood her criticism. Not in the least even, because Leandra herself had run off with her forbidden lover. And, by doing so, not only had turned her own life upside-down, but had rocked the whole of Kirkwall’s nobility in its foundations. The same nobility she had, after her miraculous return, tried to pacify by throwing her one surviving daughter into the whirling fray of wedding-prospect battles. But one way or another, she had come to the conclusion her mother only had been scared. Scared to the bone that she wouldn’t get accepted by the dry and unforgiving biddies. So, she had used her as a trump card. And had dragged her along the boring society events in a feeble effort to link her to some slack-jawed nitwit with money and a history that counted attached to his name. To get _her_ name restored. And with that the name, and future, of her daughter.

And at the same time, they had both known there was that accusation hanging between them like some kind of ominous doom. Like a sleeping volcano, now and again spewing ashes and fire, but never really erupting. That part had been really hard to forgive and, to be honest, never had been forgiven at all. It had always been the slumbering poisonous part, the part they could never speak about.

Yes, she had hated her. _And_ had understood her at the same time. Or at least had made an effort at understanding her mother’s struggles. If she only had been willing to talk about it... perhaps then they could have tried to come to terms. Or had been able to establish an agreement. If only...

And now she had gone.

No, even more awful; her mother had been murdered, slaughtered, desecrated. And the worst part was that she could have prevented it if she had been more vigilant. Again. If she had paid more attention to that Templar’s investigation, Leandra would still be alive. Now she wasn’t around anymore to chastise her for her choice of clothing, for how she wore her stubborn hair, for rejecting yet again a boring noble’s son, for hanging around with disputable friends in the Hanged Man, now she missed her like hell. She even missed her never ending objections for how she wished to give form to her life.

White lilies. Never in her life would she be able to look at those flowers again without this awful memory. She hadn’t even been able to shout at Anders, to confront him with his plea to free all mages, to rub the outcome of that ridiculous, obtuse idea in his face. She hadn’t even paid attention to his presence and his stuttered attempt at an awkward apology. She had kneeled beside her mother, holding her, desperately trying to find a way to safe her. And after it had become badly obvious that saving her was no option, she had even more desperately tried to say something to make clear to her she loved her, despite their everlasting arguments. And in her dying moments her mother, on her turn, had told her she loved her and was proud of her. It had torn her to pieces. A short moment rage flickered. Her _mother_?! A dreadful euphemism for the puppet that deranged bloodmage had turned her into! She supposed she should be thankful that at least her mother’s mind had been left intact, so they had been able to tell each other their tenderly goodbyes. But at this stage she didn’t feel anything close to gratitude. The brief flash of rage subsided and left her again in that void of numb grief and loneliness.

She had lost them all. She had made a pledge to look after them, to keep them safe and she had failed gloriously. Her parents, her siblings, all dead, all perished, and she hadn’t been able to prevent it. She was utterly alone by now, due to her own shortcomings.

Suddenly her room oppressed her. She needed air.

Without thinking she stood, left her bedroom and descended the stairs, walking like an automaton to the front door.

‘Messere ..?’ Bodahn said hesitantly. ‘This is no time to go outdoors, the weather ...’ But he closed his mouth when he saw her empty face. She did not listen to him as such, she clearly didn’t hear him at all. She seemed to wander in a completely different world.

-

The Wounded Coast. Oh how the name sounded appropriate. Wounded. But she hoped the view and smell of the salt waters lapping the coast, would bring back some life into her stunned body and mind. She headed directly to the small cave she had discovered a year or so before. She had used it ever since, as some kind of sanctuary, when she needed to be alone for a time after all the struggles to solve other people’s troubles. And to be away from the rows with her mother, the prattle of her friends and the noise of the Hanged Man. From life in general. “Cave” was probably not the right word for the room; it was more like an overextended dent in the rocks, but it sufficed as a bolthole. She had stacked some provision in a corner and now used the pile of wood to build a small fire. After that she went outside to look at the sea.

The dwarf had been right, of course; the weather hadn’t been good to start with and it got worse by the minute. It was freezing. It had been snowing already when she left her house, although the word “snow” wasn’t an accurate statement. It suggested the impression of friendly and almost romantic cotton-like thick flakes, floating from the air like tranquil spirits to cover the world in peace. This snow looked and felt more like biting sleet. This snow was out for war. And to emphasise that, now a blizzard was brewing. She didn’t care, or rather she welcomed the harsh cold wind that blew through her too thin clothes and punished her skin with icy pinpricks that soon became blows. She hadn’t bothered with a cloak or decent boots; she’d been too preoccupied. With the strengthening of the tempest, her own hitherto frozen feelings seemed to thaw up till the degree of heated fury. Suddenly she found herself screaming and fuming at the elements battering her frame, at the frosty skies, the raging sea, the wild whirling stinging snow. Hot tears were streaming down her face while she shredded her voice, seething, yelling, roaring. Cursing the Maker himself for her fate, for her inability to keep the ones she loved and cared for with her. It relieved her, enormously.

Finally she broke down and she stumbled into her refuge where she collapsed beside the fire that soon withered and extinguished.

-

Fenris had pulled a chair as close to the fire as possible. The harsh wind seemed to blow through the walls and filled the mansion with coldness. He tried to read. Hawke’s lessons hadn’t gone to waste and, in fact, he needn’t her tutoring anymore, but this afternoon he simply couldn’t put his mind into the words that tried to catch his attention. With a sigh he laid the book aside and took a small sip from the wine close at hand. This dreadful blizzard had been raging for more than twenty-four hours by now, and the end wasn’t in sight yet. No chance to go out and pay a visit to the Hanged Man to play a game of Wicked Grace with Varric and Isabela. Well, he wouldn’t perish by braving the gruesome weather but, to be honest, he didn’t feel like meeting the dwarf and even less the pirate queen. Or anyone else,6 for that matter. The ghastly scene of the death of Hawke’s mother still haunted his mind. The way she had looked in that tattered wedding dress, how she had tried to walk, staggering, until Hawke had caught her in her arms and gently had laid her down and taken her head into her lap. The softly spoken kind and compassionate words ... He closed his eyes. She had been like a corpse herself, afterwards. She hadn’t even turned to Anders, just walked out of the room with that disturbing distant look in her eyes. He had gone to her, after the Guard had taken Leandra’s – the body away and had sealed the place, in a feeble attempt to give her some solace. She had listened to him in an almost polite way but hadn’t reacted. He wasn’t even certain she had been aware of his presence. She had seemed to wander in a realm he couldn’t reach. It had pained him, enormously, but he had been unable to do something about it. It frustrated him, to say the least about it.

Guilt weighted heavily on his shoulders. No, he didn’t have any share in her mother’s death, but he had given her a generous portion of heartache already, before that horrible occurrence. He still saw her injured glance the moment he walked away from her, driven by fear and cowardice. He still could hear the brittle uttered reasons why he should stay, the sobs she bravely tried to stifle. He had felt awful back then, and he felt even more awful right now. She had overwhelmed him, frightened him, scared him to death, to be frank, with her all-embracing surrender, her unbridled passion and love. He knew for sure he couldn’t answer that. In the end he would have disappointed her; he never would be able to live up to her expectations. She had asked too much of him, seen too much in him. He could never fulfil her hopes. He was an ex-slave who had freed himself at the expense of many innocent lives. An ex-slave who, despite the blood he had shed, still wasn’t totally free of his shackles.

He got dragged out of his sombre contemplations by a heavy persistent banging on his front door.

Cautiously he crept down the stairs, his sword in his hands, and opened the door, ready for any assault. He was not ready for a completely devastated Bodahn.

‘Messere! Is she here?’ The dwarf sounded desperate.

Fenris lowered his sword. ‘Who? Hawke? No. Why?’ Eloquent as he might be at times, he also had the ability to cut to the case if need be.

Bodahn wrung his hands. ‘She has left the house yesterday morning and hasn’t returned yet. I fear something dreadful has befallen her.’

All Fenris’s instincts roared to life at this moment but he tried to stay reasonable. ‘Why would something –‘

He got cut short by the dwarf who positively was at the end of his tether. ‘You haven’t seen the look in her eyes when she walked out! And she wasn’t dressed at all for this weather! I’ve been looking all over Kirkwall to find her but she’s nowhere to be found. Please, Messere, you are my last hope!’

Vehemently Fenris tried to fight down the feeling of rising panic. He _had_ seen that look and it had worried him greatly. Nevertheless he tried to sound calm and composed. ‘Where have you been searching?’

‘Everywhere!’ the dwarf cried. ‘I’ve been to the Hanged Man, the Alienage, Lowtown, even to the Chantry. No one knows where she is or has even seen her!’ He was near to tears by now.

‘So you have succeeded in bringing the whole of Kirkwall in an uproar and only now thought of coming to me?’

Bodahn stumbled back but at the same time almost was blown into the mansion by the angry wind. ‘Yes, well, I assumed, considering what happened between – forgive me...‘

Fenris felt annoyed by himself. He reached out and pulled the dwarf into the hallway. The wind shut the door behind Bodahn’s back. ‘No need to apologise. Now tell me where the rest have been searching.’

-

Apparently he was the only one who had come up with the idea she wasn’t in the city at all. And thus the only one who was trying to conquer the Wounded Coast in an aggressive blizzard. At least, he thought sourly, he had been wise enough to don a fur-lined cloak and to put on some warm boots. Even elven feet weren’t freeze-proof. He ploughed through knee-deep snow banks that hindered him in his progress, every now and then calling out her name with no avail. The only answer came from a startled hare that fled at the sight of him. Finally the tempest quietened down, leaving a crisp blue sky in its wake, but it didn’t do anything positive to the still freezing temperature. As a matter of fact, the cold seemed to plummet several degrees. He had checked every cave, corner and spot of the Wounded Coast by now and was willing to give up. She definitely wasn’t around here; probably Bodahn had been hysterical and she was lying in her warm bed while he was traipsing around this blasted area, making a fool of himself and getting utterly cold. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. In reality he got more worried by the minute.

And then, pure by chance, he stumbled upon the small cave.

-

His breath hitched and his heart stopped pounding.

There she was, lying next to an extinguished fire, curled into a ball, not moving, her skin a bluish hue, seemingly frozen to dead.

‘No,’ he whispered, ‘no, this can’t be true. Damn it, Hawke, tell me you haven’t been this stupid.’ He raced to her, dropped down at her side and laid a wavering hand on her throat. At first he felt nothing but cold skin which made his heart from stopping to racing sky-high in a – ah, heartbeat. But then he sensed a faint, slow pulse. He wanted to weep with relief. Driven by instinct, he hastened to rekindle the fire. He used all the stacked wood to make some kind of bonfire. He could wonder about how it got here later. At this moment his first and only goal was bringing her back to life. And thus warmth was the most important thing right now. After he had got the fire roaring, he drew her into his arms but she didn’t respond. Her body felt as if her mind drifted in realms far beyond this one. Once again, like the day before, far beyond his reach. He whispered her name over and over again but she stayed still. Not even a movement of her lashes or a twitch of her cold blue lips told him she was aware of his efforts to bring her back. His feverishly galloping mind reminded him of tales of cases of hypothermal, and how to remedy it. So he undressed her and himself and pulled her close to him to give to her and share with her the heat of his body.

Feeling her naked skin against his own, cold as it might be, brought back the memory of the night they had shared together. He had to fight back tears. She had been glorious, almost glowing with delight delight, giving everything, every part of her body and her mind. She had screamed out his name the moment she had reached her relief and completion. _Fenris!_ And for the first time in his life, as far as he could remember, he had been happy with his name. He shuddered by the recollection. She repeatedly had called that name while reaching her peak. It still staggered him. He had felt her clamp down on him and he had followed her in her height, several heights, reaching his own in pure and utmost delight, but he hadn’t been able to reply her cries. Oh yes, he had been wrapped up in exhilaration, feeling her, touching her, tasting her. And, Maker, it had been an overwhelming taste of sun kissed skin mixed with a hint of sandalwood. It had reminded him of Seheron, which hadn’t done much to keep him from his firm decision to leave her. It had brought up too many painful memories, besides the ones he couldn’t cope with to begin with. But, to be honest, those were far less important. Even the memories of the slaughtered Fog warriors bleached in his true fear.

Their coming together had been more than he had thought or had hoped it would be beforehand. But with the coming and ever so fast fleeting memories, despair had raised its ugly head. _He would never be good enough for her._ He had blood on his hands, his former master still chased him. Being attached to him, even as a distant acquaintance, could mean her death warrant. He wanted to find ever so more reasons to keep her, and all the feelings she stirred up, at bay. He never should have given in to his desire for her in the first place.

And then the insight struck him like a sledgehammer. He had been scared. Still was. Scared for the consequences. Scared to be bound again. Scared to give himself completely and openly to someone who so passionately and whole-heartedly gave herself to him. Scared she would found out he had nothing to offer but his tattered past and twisted personality. Scared to death she would leave him and he would be left behind, empty-handed. To prevent that bleak imagination from becoming a harsh reality, he had stuttered something stupid about the memories that had turned up, and had run off like some kind of frightened dog, tail between legs, so to speak.

But at this moment that fear turned into the unbearable thought he could lose her as yet. And because of that the realisation he was so afraid of losing her altogether that he had fled her to prevent that from happening finally hit home. It had nothing to do with his life as a slave, nothing with how he had butchered those Fog Warriors, nothing with the still threatening existence of Danarius, nothing with his sudden bubbling up and at the next moment fading memories.

It had everything to do with how he loved her and how he was too frightened to handle that. It had turned his whole existence upside-down. There never had been someone to bind him in that way. Never someone who asked that much from him, to give himself freely. _How could someone ask a slave to give himself freely?_ He swallowed. But at the same time _she_ had given herself freely to him. Without hesitation, without questioning, because she loved him. He swallowed again. Could love really do that? He looked down at her still motionless frame. What if she died? He could not live with that. He would do anything to save her. Hell, he _was_ doing his utmost to save her. He took a deep breath. Yes, he would give himself to her if that took to keep her alive. He must not back away. He just had to give in.

‘My love,’ he pledged breathlessly, ‘I promise that, if you live on, I will not ever leave you again. Please don’t give up. Please wake up.’

And finally, at that moment, at those words, she opened her eyes. She felt his body warming hers, his skin against her frame. She was almost shocked by seeing the look in his eyes. Filled with anxiety, fear – and love. And glistening with tears, on the brink of spilling over his face.

‘Before I found you there was a moment –‘ he stuttered with so much relief in his voice that it would have brought her on her knees if she had been standing. ‘Please, don’t do that again.’

She brushed his face with her fingertips.

‘Am I really awake?’

Her last memory was of facing the ocean in the midst of an icy tempest while cursing the whole world to the Void. Trying to come to terms with the unbearable fact of the now definitely unfinished history between her and her mother, all still lingering hope of understanding so bluntly and cruelly ripped to shreds. All those not uttered words, always lingering at the edge of her mind, would for ever stay unspoken.

So cold…

Even though her mother had told in her dying moments she loved her and was proud of her, she still was ridden with remorse and a devastating feeling of failure.

So cold…

She had screamed and raved and had collapsed, that much she remembered. She _had_ come to terms, in some way. She had decided her mother’s words and the look she had cast upon her had given her some peace of mind. Leandra had, in the end, accepted she had an eldest child who had more to give than a rigid attitude and stubborn hair. A child with a character that went beyond refusing pink ribbons and weak-chinned noble sons. A daughter that was very well able to make her own destiny, like _she_ had done, once.

She had felt utterly forlorn and at the same time exalted at that insight. Finally her mother had seen they were so very much alike. _She_ had seen how very much they were alike. And then Leandra had died. And she had cursed the skies and the sea and the earth and the rocks and the air and the snow till she could not scream anymore. Till she had crawled into her bolthole and had tried to stop to exist because it was so hard to carry on. Because life was too empty and too cold to carry on.

So cold.

_And then he appeared and rekindled the fire._

And now, obviously, he was holding her. Fenris. The only person who could chase away the cold and grief that had enveloped her. Instead of that _he_ enveloped her. This couldn’t be true.

‘Is this real?’

He smiled. He definitely _smiled_. It was the most warm, dedicated and loving smile she had ever come across.

This couldn’t be real. This absolutely couldn’t be real. Fenris never smiled. Alright, that wasn’t true. _Try again_. He _very rarely_ smiled. Which made the occasion even more precious. And then, to her utter confusion and happiness, he repeated his vow. ‘I will never leave you again. I’m yours. I always will be yours.’

She buried her face into his shoulder. She had to think this over. Was he serious? Did he indeed mean his urgent hoarsely uttered words? But he left her no space to think.

‘If you will have me. For as long as you want me to stay.’

She dared not look up. ‘Forever?’ she murmured, hesitantly.

‘That’s a good start,’ he agreed. ‘But how about forever and a day?’

Only now she could muster the courage to face him. She caught his eyes, full of sincerity and dedication. With a hint of nervousness. ‘I’d love that,’ she smiled. Admittedly it was a brittle smile; she still wasn’t convinced this was really happening. Some part of her was afraid she lingered somewhere in the Fade, ready to wake up in the harsh reality of guilt and pain and loneliness.

But then he chased the fears away. He kissed her. No kiss could have been more real, or more filled with love. He drove away all the ghastly memories with that one kiss, and replaced them with the promise of something far better.

And without further hesitation she surrendered to him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Honesty before anything else: Yes, I wrote this one-shot in an attempt to bring Hawke and Fenris together in my own pigheaded way (i.e. by completely ignoring the plot of the game.) But also, and perhaps even more importantly, to deal with my own mother issues. Because every daughter has mother issues, in one way or another, right..?
> 
> I can only hope you agree and that you liked my scribbles. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
